Until the Dawn
by theyleaveanote
Summary: John's been having nightmares, even though Sherlock's back. They've been physical, but Sherlock hasn't been able to tell John how he really feels yet. Can be read as the prequel to Voice Like Velvet, although it stands alone. Rated M for naughty reasons. Johnlock.


I stand in the doorway, and watch.

His body twists and contorts. His ribcage expands, contracts like an accordion.

I move closer, silently.

His knees are shaking. He pulls the blankets tight around him, then flings them off as if they were on fire.

Even closer, to the foot of his bed.

His knuckles are grey as stone. His face is more lined than I can ever recall seeing it. His breath comes in harsh gasps. As he tosses, frantically, I catch the moonlight shining off his cheeks, and I realize they are covered in tears. His teeth have seized onto his lips. Haven't broken the skin yet, but from the full redness of them, it wouldn't take much longer.

Enough.

I sit at the edge of the bed. I hesitate for a moment. A choked sob escapes his throat, and I set my hand on his shoulder.

Trying, trying to be gentle, I squeeze softly, but he jumps anyway, waking frightened, crying openly. My name tumbles out of his sleepy mouth before he catches himself, and something in my chest tightens painfully.

"Sh-Sherlock – " he says again, awake now. He stares at me as if he's seen a ghost, chest still heaving. He clutches at my shirt for a moment, then pulls away, wiping his eyes briskly. "I – sorry." He looks up at me, eyes bright with trying to smile. "Was I talking in my sleep? I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry." He chuckles, attempting to be hearty. "Damn it all. Took me nearly an hour to convince you you needed to sleep in the first place, then I go and wake you. What's it now, then? D'you want tea?"

I lean forward and kiss him on the mouth.

His lips are shaking, but soft, and after the initial surprise, he kisses me back willingly. I place my hands on his face, brushing the tears away, smoothing his hair back. I wish I knew how to be _comforting_; I don't. I only know I want to make him feel better. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me, breaking the kiss to pull him into a tight embrace.

We've had sex since I've been back, but he believes it's only sex. He doesn't want it to be, but he thinks that's all I'm capable of; he's surprised I am capable of even that. He feels _lucky_, that he gets that much, I know. I do not know how to tell him how much that…hurts me. That's what it is, hurt. I figured it out. I am hurt that he thinks I am incapable of more, though I do not blame him.

He looks up at me, lips still parted and moist from the kiss. I tighten my grip around his shaking body and press my mouth to his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"They haven't stopped," I say quietly.

"What?"

"The nightmares."

He freezes in my arms. I hold him tighter, rubbing my hands across his back. I am likely holding him too hard for it to actually be comforting. I am probably impeding his breathing. He does not protest, though, and I feel no inclination to stop.

"I – I guess I don't need to ask how you know," he murmurs.

He is…_embarrassed. _

Why?

Because he thinks he is only sex to me. Companionship and sex. Because I have failed, repeatedly, to impart to him that he is a great deal more than that.

He believes he should be embarrassed because nightmares show caring, and he is humiliated that he should care while I do not.

I do not know how to respond to this.

"I – I thought they would have stopped," I say instead, truthfully, but lamely. "After I came back."

John's body shudders as he sighs, making me swallow unpleasantly hard.

"I did too."

My lip hurts from my teeth digging into it. My forehead is creased. My arms are numb from being wrapped around him.

What am I supposed to do? Do I ask him about the nightmares? Would that help? Would that make it worse? I do believe that might make it worse, to make him relive them. Do I tell him how I feel? _Feel_ – do I even know? Of course I know.

But I don't know how.

…Love?

I did not think I would ever need to express it, thus I don't know how to do so in a way that is neither childish, foolish, nor dishonest.

I have been quiet for too long. He is shifting, uncomfortable not only because of my arms but because he thinks he's made me uncomfortable, talking about this.

"What are they about? The nightmares?" Damn it. I thought I had concluded that that was _not _the appropriate course of action. I needed something, however, and that was the only tactic available.

I pull back, and his face is more lined than ever.

"You – you really want to know?"

Corner of his mouth turned up. He wants to talk about it, or at the very least, he wants to keep talking. Not a bad course of action, then.

"Yes."

He sighs again, deeply, but his resolve is stiffening. This is doing him good.

"Well. They don't usually have a…a _plot_, you know." He wipes his knuckles quickly across his eyes again. "Sometimes they do. Sometimes it's a case, you know, and we're just running along, as usual, and then I turn around, and you're – you're on the ground, and you're not moving." His eyes are looking somewhere distant now, they're staring at my chest, but they're looking somewhere inside of him, to images he's been forced to replay over and over. "And I know, I _know_ what I'm going to see, every bloody time, I _know_, but my feet walk me over anyway, and there you are, as you were when you fell." He hasn't noticed it, but he has started to rock gently, back and forth. Swaying, more like. Helplessly, I hold him tight again, but I can feel him shaking in my arms, and I can't hold him too tightly without breaking my gaze, and I don't want to stop watching him. "And then it's the same, the same things I see each time. Your face. Your eyes open. Blood in them, blood everywhere, and there's blood on me, all over me." His face contorts in something like disgust, something like horror. "I can taste it. You're not meant to be able to taste in dreams, but I can taste it. Sometimes it's just you falling, over and over again, sometimes it's from the top of the roof, sometimes it's the instant you hit the ground. Always, red, so much red, and brown and black, and sometimes, most times, I'm so close, so _close_, I get so close, I can almost catch you, or I'm up on the roof and I can just – just feel the edge of your jacket before you fall. And then it's red again, just red, red, red…"

He stops, and I know there is more, but his mouth keeps opening and closing, silently. He wants me to ask.

"What else?"

"It's the battlefield, sometimes." His voice breaks. "The same nightmares I used to have, except now…now every face, on every corpse, is you." His voice is very quiet now, but very, very steady. "Every soldier I ever tried to save, every one who died on my table, it's them, but they all have your face."

He falls silent at last.

"You're going to sleep in my bed from now on," I say immediately, without thinking, before the silence becomes too broad.

"Wh-what? Sherlock, I couldn't possibly – " but he's blushing, and I know he is pleased. I'm pleased too, with myself, for managing to say it.

"Of course you can, and you will."

He's stammering something indecipherable.

"What?" I demand. "Why not? People will _talk_, is that it?"

"No," he says, firmly that time. I can't help but smile slightly. "No, I don't care about that." My heart gives an irritating, funny sort of leap. "I just – I – " He doesn't know what to think now, because he still won't let himself believe that I actually care for him, but what else could I mean? I want to save him from this mental struggle, but I cannot bring myself to say the words, though _god_, I want to. "You don't sleep until so late some nights!"

"I'll turn the main light off. Or stay in the sitting room."

His eyes meet mine, asking plainly _you would do that for me_?

"Of course," I say briskly, more briskly than I mean to.

"But – but my nightmares. I'll wake you up."

Idiot.

"That's exactly why you're going to sleep in my bed, so I can be right there when the nightmares strike."

He looks at me in disbelief, and it begins to dawn on him, the suspicion he hasn't let himself give in to. That's right, John, come on, figure it out, and whatever you do, please don't make me say it…

"Why?"

Shit.

So innocently, too, _why_. Damn it all. You know exactly why, John. I can feel my jaw working furiously as I try to find words, _some_ words, and he pulls back, nervously. He thinks he's crossed the line; he thinks I'm _angry_, oh damn –

I kiss him, gently but passionately. He relaxes. This he knows, this is familiar, though he can tell it's not quite the same as usual. He dismisses the difference, the tenderness, as his wistful imagination, and kisses me harder, pulling me close. His hand strokes along my chest, moving down to my stomach and hips. A flicker of arousal courses through me. No, _no_. I can't do this again. I can't have him think this is all I want. Not anymore.

I pull back. He's nervous again, tries to make it a game, leans in again, but I hold him away from me.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Don't make me say it," I say aloud, finally. My voice seems very small, and far harsher than I mean it to. "Don't make me say it, John. Please."

"Say what?"

"Don't _do _that!" I run my fingers through my hair angrily. "John – please. _Please_. I don't know how. I don't know how to do this."

He pulls back, hurt etching itself into every line on his face.

"Oh." His voice is hushed and rife with dark understanding. He thinks I'm – breaking up with him? _What?_ Oh _Jesus_ – "All right then. Back to just flatmates then, is it?" He glances up at me, and reads my frustrated face all wrong. "Or – or do you want me out, then? Well, that's not very fair, this isn't much notice, but I suppose – "

"I love you."

He freezes. Mouth open, eyes wide.

I can feel my own heartbeat, accelerated. It pounds in my ears.

I have never once said those words aloud before in my life. Not like this.

I have never meant anything more in my life.

He doesn't say anything, just sits there, gaping. I can feel his heartbeat accelerated too, but the silence is torture, and now that the words are out they can't seem to stop wanting to come.

"I love you, John," I say again, "I love you, and – and I want to protect you, and I couldn't stand being apart from you. I couldn't stand knowing what I was doing to you, even though I knew it _was_ protecting you. And when I came back, I couldn't stand that you thought it was just sex – how could you think that? How could you possibly believe that after everything we've been through, if I expressed the faintest desire for you, it would be just _sex_?"

John struggles to find his voice, but I wait, I wait, because I truly cannot figure this out. I understand almost all of it, but with so much love for him, love that fills me up entirely, I cannot understand how he didn't know.

"I kept thinking you might." His voice is something like a croak. "But it always felt like a very arrogant thing to feel, to be the one person Sherlock Holmes finally fell in love with."

"You're an _idiot_." The words slip out before I realized this might not entirely be the time, and true enough, his eyes are bright again. I could kick myself.

"Maybe I am, then!" he retorts. "But when you came back and you kissed me, and – and you took off my clothes, you know, what was I supposed to think? You didn't _say_ anything! You just – just – " He is overwhelmed. I have overwhelmed him. This is not going well. "It just seemed like too much to hope for, that you wanted more than just a second-in-command and sex."

Second-in-command.

He thinks I am just using him, that I have always been just using him, like a drug, like the drugs he made me quit, he helped me quit. He thinks I have used him to solve crimes, and that I have used him for sex.

"John, I had absolutely no interest in sex until I met you," I say truthfully. "None. I want to be with you because…because I am drawn to you, in so many ways. And you have never, ever been my second-in-command. You are my partner. My equal. In everything."

"You just called me an idiot."

"I'm the idiot." Never said those words before either, but it makes him smile, and so they are good words. "I'm the idiot, and more often than not, you are more than my equal, in fact. You are my better. You are my superior, and I honestly do not know where I would be without you." He looks at me and blinks, hard. I know what he's doing, what he's checking for. "And no, this is _not_ a dream."

"Well, that's – that's good." He is breathless, and quiet again. This is problematic, because I have run out of words to say. I know there are more of them, hundreds upon thousands of reasons why I love him, but I have said more tonight than I ever have before, and that is enough for now. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too," he says, quickly, his face bright pink.

I lean in slightly to kiss him and he pounces, kissing me madly, hungrily. I smile into the kiss, into his warmth and his eagerness, but then he pulls back, just for one moment, to smile back at me. His face is beyond happy. He's delighted, he's relieved, he's still bright pink and just a little uncertain, but he's almost ecstatic that I've finally said it, that we've finally said it, that he can let himself at last believe that it's true, and it is my turn to be overwhelmed. My breath quickens; I swallow hard, feeling my Adam's apple bobbing.

I am overwhelmed by the amount of love I feel for this creature, for this man. I want to do everything for him. I will keep him safe, with my own life – which I have known and I have proved but I have never felt so strongly before. I want to make him always happy, to make him understand what an impossibly important person he is.

I kiss him again, deeply. I lay him back onto his pillows, as gently as I can. I caress his lips with mine, smooth back his hair, and kneel above him.

He moves to take off his own shirt for me, and I've always let him before, but now I move his hands away and pull it off myself, in one fluid motion. Suddenly I want to just remove his pants as well, and have his body clean of clothes in front of me as soon as possible, but I know that would make him just a little uncomfortable, to be naked while I'm still clothed.

I unbutton my own shirt and toss it to the floor. I remove the pants I sleep in. I am completely unclothed for him. This never fails to give me an odd sort of rush, of anticipation and eagerness, but also of a slightly nervous awareness of my own body, that I've never gotten when nude in front of anyone else – not even in Buckingham Palace. I feel it because I know he is looking at me in a way people never look at me. It is nerve-wracking, but I've come to realize that sometimes nerve-wracking can be good.

Fully naked, I pull off his pants, and he lets me, and we are naked together. He moves to perform the usual step – to suck me off until I'm wet enough that I can slide into him without it hurting too much, but I can't stand the thought of that any more.

I catch him, and I kiss his confused mouth, leaning him back onto the bed again. I kiss his neck, his chest, his scar, gently, deeply, slowly.

The very first time, I had been home for a week. We had spoken about why I had done it, how I had done it, the very first night I had been back, of course, but a week in and I wanted to tell him the main reason – that I loved him. Yet he turned to me and I kissed him and then I couldn't stop. I know it hurt, that first time, rushed and slightly embarrassed on both our parts. I faced him against the wall and I fucked him, standing, hard. Each time since then had been the same, except sometimes – though rarely – he initiated it.

Now, I kiss my way down his chest, flicking my tongue over his nipples until they're pert and pink. I lavish kisses on his throat, marking him, but not too hard, sucking just until I can feel his erection throb. His fingers grasp at the sheets as I kiss his hips, his stomach, the inside of his thighs.

For the first time, I take his cock into my mouth. I have never done this before, but I have learned a bit from him, and I listen attentively to his voice and his body. I take his length as deep into my throat as I can. It is smooth and thick and hot, and not altogether unpleasant. I grasp my fist around the base and I bob my head, up and down, swirling my tongue around it as much as I can. His body arches, half in pleasure and half in what seems to be disbelief.

"Sherlock – oh _God_, that's amazing…_Jesus_...have – have you ever done this before?"

I give a small shake of my head _no_, not pausing in my ministrations, though I do smile, flattered, around his cock.

I take him even deeper into my throat, as deep as it will go, and he gives a sort of strangled moan, uncontrollably thrusting his hips up to meet me. I welcome it, grabbing his hips, pulling him in.

"I – _ah!_ – w-why are you doing this?"

Just like John to not let a good thing happen.

I pull away briefly, and he gives a faint moan – the idiot didn't quite realize I couldn't speak with my mouth full.

"It has come to my attention that I haven't been the most gracious lover."

He blushes even brighter.

"What? N-no, Sherlock, it's fine, really, you don't have to – "

"I want to."

I mean it, and he can tell.

He smiles weakly, overwhelmed again.

I attend to his erection, spurred by his moans. I get creative, sliding my lips along the sides, humming merrily to create vibration, stroking his balls. When my fingers slip just below them, I get an idea.

I replace my mouth with my hand, jerking him steadily, and lower myself between his legs. I wrap my mouth around the smooth skin of his balls and take them full into my mouth, rolling them gently, sucking. His body tenses in pleasure, fingers scrambling for the sheets. I toy with his balls happily, enjoying the rough texture of the hair over the smooth thin skin, the way flickers of my tongue elicit the most delicious sounds from him.

When his balls are damp in my mouth and I can feel his cock just beginning to throb with impatience, I pull back and grin at him.

"Just one more thing, my love." My voice rumbles deeply – not intentional, but it has the desired effect.

He realizes what I'm about to do and flushes pink again, opens his mouth to protest, but then I am already there, licking at his tight asshole, and his words fade to a choked groan.

I can tell no one has done this to him before. The pleasure coursing through his body is entirely new, the sounds coming out of his mouth entirely foreign, and I am quite pleased I am the one to give this to him.

His skin is musky yet clean and smells faintly of soap – he showers directly before bed, but the nightmares coated him in a thin sheen of sweat. I taste it all. I circle his entrance with the very tip of my tongue before licking it hard, full on, burrowing my face into his ass. He cries out in pleasure when I do and I can feel my own cock twitch. He pushes my hand away from his erection and starts jerking it himself. I let him, only because it allows me to spread his thighs wider. I lick his asshole hard, making him tremble with the sensation. I love the texture of it on my tongue, smooth and dark and creased. Once my mouth has made his body relax enough to open for me, I nudge my tongue inside, stroking the inner walls just beyond his entrance. His ass tightens, clenches down around me, as his other hand reaches down to pull at my hair. His body writhes under me as he jerks his cock, grinding his ass down onto me. I obligingly move deeper, my wet lips pressed hard to his flesh. I fuck him with my tongue.

When the feel of him clenching down around me becomes too much, my own ignored cock begging for attention, I pull back somewhat reluctantly.

I admire my handiwork as I stroke my erection, his ass spread open for me, his fist pumping weakly at his desperate hard-on, his face a picture of pure arousal.

"You're incredible," he whispers at me. I smile and place a small kiss on his cheek before I position myself at his entrance. I'm proud of myself, but I fight to not become too arrogant.

I know that I have never made him orgasm. I finish into him every time, and he does enjoy it, but I never find that spot, I was too ashamed of what I was doing to try. I fucked him against the sitting room wall and he retreats to his bedroom to finish himself off, and then, apparently, to have awful nightmares.

Not this time.

Not anymore.

As I slide into him, more carefully than I have in the past, I say it.

"I am going to make you cum this time."

He is gritting his teeth as his body shifts to accommodate my length, but at my words, his jaw drops.

"Sh-Sherlock, really, this is too much –!"

I begin to move in him, fighting my own instincts to fuck his tight delicious ass as hard as I can, and instead savoring every inch that slips into his body.

"No. This is finally enough."

I make love to John Watson. I gaze into his eyes as I rock in and out of him, as our bodies push together. I wrap his thighs around me and pull his hips up, easing myself as deep as I can. I wrap my fingers around his length and stroke it in time with my thrusts.

I keep shifting my position as much as I can, varying the depth, and he looks vaguely bewildered at it until –

"_Oh!"_ His eyes and mouth open wide; his pulse increases, thighs tightening around me.

I can't help it. I try to smile, but it comes out a devious smirk.

There we go.

I file away the location of John's prostate and the angle required to hit it just right in my ever-expanding mental John-folder. I will later calculate the number of creative techniques and positions I can use to stimulate it, but for now, his chest is heaving and he's pushing down on me, and this will do.

I still take my time, but I thrust into him more firmly now. I hit that spot every time, learning exactly how much force is needed for his moans to be nearly all pleasure and only two percent pain, maximum. I realize with the girth of my own member the only way it'll ever be zero is with my fingers, and I'm eager to experiment with that, but not at the moment.

I push his thighs back and fuck him harder, but lovingly, gritting my teeth and letting my head fling back as I begin to lose myself in the ecstasy that only he can give me. I am usually quick about this, and watching him be satiated with my cock only makes me want to be quicker, but I force myself to hold on.

I find a steady rhythm and he scrunches his eyes closed. I stroke his erection firmly, and he tightens around me, clenching his ass, and I know he is nearly there. I hold on, determined to finish at the same time.

"Open your eyes, John," I say quietly, each word punctuated with my thrusts.

He keeps them gritted shut, still grinding down on me, and shakes his head. He is still embarrassed; he doesn't want to watch me watching him.

"It's all right," I try to reassure him. I'm fighting hard to hold on now. My voice is very deep, and rough with need. "I want to see you orgasm, John. I want to see you look at me when you finish. I want to see your face when I orgasm, when I finish into your fantastic ass. I want to see your face when your body clenches down on me, on my cock. I want to look into your eyes when I cum, John, _please_."

At that last word his eyes spring open and I stare directly into them and I release, my head flinging back in impossible ecstasy, all my muscles taut and on fire at once, and I thrust into him hard, riding out my orgasm, never once breaking eye contact. His ass twitches as I fill him with my seed and he erupts over my fist and onto his stomach, cum pumping out of his magnificent cock. His face dissolves into rapture, mouth slack and throat straining, and he listens to me and doesn't close his eyes for more than a moment, and it's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.

_I've done that_, I think to myself as the last of my cum spills into his ass, _I've done that to him_.

And look what he's done to me.

For me.

While we both catch our breath, I can't bring myself to pull out of him just yet. I watch his heaving chest and his trembling hands still buried in him until I can feel myself softening, and reluctantly, I slip out and lay next to him.

I want to take him in my arms and hold him close, but that is only half of what he needs right now. So instead I set my head on his chest and I cuddle close to him. I can hear his surprise on his breath, followed by a small smile. He knows what I'm doing, but he appreciates it.

He wraps his strong arms around my body and holds me close to him. I press my lips to his chest.

"In answer to your previous question, that's why," I say sleepily.

"What?"

He strokes my hair, and for some reason, it feels wonderful.

"That's why you'll be sleeping in my bed from now on. So if the nightmares come, we can do that."

He pauses for a moment, and I realize that yet _again_ I've made it sound that I just want sex –

"Oh – _no_ – oh John, come on, you know what I mean." I look up at him rather plaintively. "I want to take care of you."

He chuckles, a real laugh now.

"I know. You idiot."

**Epilogue**

Tonight we stay in his bed, but the next night he sleeps in mine. By the end of the week, the nightmares are less frequent, and a drawer in my dresser belongs to him. By the end of three months, his room is for books and body parts, and my room is ours.

The nightmares still come, though only once every few weeks or so. I am beginning to think they will never stop, but we are both comforted by the fact that I wake up quickly when they happen, and I soothe him the best way I know how.

**END**


End file.
